


its sweet and bitter taste

by thatsparrow



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 10:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20208073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: I love you, too.It'll pass.Much like God, that last bit turned out to be a lie.





	its sweet and bitter taste

**Author's Note:**

> title from "los angeles, I'm yours" by the decemberists

_ I love you, too. _

_ It'll pass. _

Much like God, that last bit turned out to be a lie.

—

It's two years later and things are—fine, actually. Good, even. Cashiers ask you how you are, and you say, "I'm doing well, thanks," and it doesn't even feel like a lie. The cafe is, somehow, still a success—enough so that you can afford to do things like buy a new awning and replace the linoleum. You even spend a weekend with drop-cloths spread out over your nice, recently-replaced linoleum and give the interior a new coat of paint. You choose this pastel, light-washed teal color that looked cheery on the swatches but mostly reminds you of watered-down mouthwash. Still, when the sun comes in during the afternoons, it looks nice. You get compliments on it.

All the guinea pig pictures are still up, of course.

Both Hillary and Stephanie (who is, you remind people, actually a hamster) are also doing well, which feels like a miracle. A few months back, Hillary caught some sort of guinea pig flu and that had led to an emergency vet visit and several very-panicked Google searches about guinea pig lifespans, but then she'd gotten better and apparently they live for four-to-eight years anyway, so, she'll likely be around for ages yet.

(Hamsters, on the other hand, only live about two. Sorry, Stephanie.)

That banker—or, former banker? You never did find out what his new job was—still comes by. At least once a month, and usually on Chatty Wednesdays. He brings his wife, too, as he'd said he would. She has kind eyes—which is the sort of description you don't use very often, but suits her—and is both soft-spoken and full of questions. You learn that she bakes, because of course she does, and every so often she brings along a cloth-lined basket of lavender cookies or rose-frosted cupcakes or something equally Martha Stewart. They're fucking delicious, too.

Claire still commutes from Finland, but less often, now that she lives there. She has an apartment in London for when she visits that's obscenely beautiful and rarely-ever used—dark granite countertops and these funny-looking geometric sofas and lots of tasteful artwork (though, none of them done by your cunt stepmother). It should all be gathering dust, but Claire pays someone to clean it once a week and to keep the fridge stocked (on the off chance she comes for a sudden visit, which she never does). Sometimes, when you've been out late and your own place is too far away, you stay there for the night. Claire _ did _ give you a spare key, after all, and it seems a shame that no one is getting any use out of those million-thread count sheets or the quinoa salads in the fridge. You don't particularly like quinoa, but that isn't the point. 

The two of you don't talk often, but often enough. You know that she's busy, and when she does call, it doesn't feel like an obligation. Like, sure, maybe your sister needs a calendar reminder to phone you, but when she does, she sounds genuinely happy to hear from you. (She also just sounds genuinely happy about her life, which is such a wonderful change of pace.) Tall, blonde, beautiful, Finnish Klare posts pictures of the two of them on Facebook sometimes (yes, you got a Facebook just to friend him)—mostly selfies, all taken by him, of him and Claire in various corners of the world. Stern-looking, northern cities where the sun doesn't rise part of the year, and bright, fruit-flavored beaches where the sun never sets. Claire looks half-annoyed in all of them, but the kind of annoyance that's covering up how pleased she really is. Like she isn't allowed to look _ too _ happy about her tall, blonde, beautiful, Finnish boyfriend and how much he clearly adores his tall, brunette, equally-beautiful, British girlfriend.

"If you have a child, will you also name it Claire?"

"What? Don't be silly, we're not having a child. I don't even know if we're going to get married."

(She does, and they are.)

"You could spell it with a _ ch _ so it's a little bit different. Something silly and American, like _ C-h-l-a-y-r-e_."

"Stop it."

(She's smiling on the other end of the phone. You expect they'll announce the pregnancy by the end of the year.)

"It's gender-neutral, too, so you're set either way. Come on—you both have perfect bones and perfect hair and it'd be such a shame to waste that. "

"You're ridiculous."

"Always, but I think I'd be a great Aunt to little Chlayre."

"I'm going, now."

Apparently, having sex with someone who has the same name as you is weird, but you get used to it. And, apparently, the sex has been so amazing anyway that it's worth a little weirdness. Good for her. God knows she needed it.

(Speaking of God—)

He moved parishes shortly after the wedding. Not God, of course, but—well, you know. You'd thought it a little dramatic to move entire cities just because you'd had sex, but it was also arguably less dramatic than his leaving the Church, so. Likely he had made the right call. You probably would have ended up hating each other by the end, anyway, if he'd stayed. It wouldn't have worked out, because when do these things ever? It's good that he left. (It isn't.) It is.

Still.

You think about him less than you used to, less than in the days after—_I love you, too. It'll pass_—the bus stop, when it was all still so fresh and new. When you were feeling dramatic (drunk), you'd liken it to the feeling of having lost a limb, like he'd taken one of your hands or some vital organ when he'd walked away. When you're feeling less dramatic (sober), you liken it to having lost something you'd only been promised—something fanciful, like someone told you that they'd invented the ability to breathe underwater and it had all turned out to be a lie. 

Except it wasn't a lie. He _ did _ love you. He just loved God more.

One afternoon, you'd been running errands that had happened to take you past the church (six blocks out of your way, actually, but close enough) and ducked inside—not even to say anything, just to see him, maybe—but it had been empty except for Pam arranging some pamphlets at the front. You'd asked about him, because of course you had, and she'd said he was "gone."

"_Gone _ gone? Like—"

(Dead?)

"No, sorry, my mistake. _ Moved_. This lovely parish on the coast whose own priest passed away a few weeks ago. A little quiet, but he says it's very charming."

"You've spoken to him, then?"

"Yes, of course."

_ Of course_—like it's so simple.

You leave ten minutes later, after Pam's talked you into donating another ten pounds to the collection and volunteering at another church event the coming weekend, but it doesn't really hit you until you're nearly back at the cafe that he's—gone. Not _ dead _ gone, but might as well be. That, much like Harry taking that stupid dinosaur toy, he'd wanted to close the door permanently. Maybe he knew you well enough to know that you'd come back to the church someday, or maybe he knew himself well enough to figure it was only a matter of time before he turned up on your doorstep, and so he'd taken the choice away from you both. What a stupid, frustratingly-adult thing of him to do.

You hate him and love him a little bit more for it.

You don't really know what moving on looks like, but you figure it out. You drink a lot, at first, and then a little bit less. You stop feeling weepy whenever you see a Bible, or a G&T, or photos from the wedding. Rebound sex isn't as good as you'd imagined (except with the Hot Misogynist), and so you quit bringing people home quite so often—at least until you can stop comparing everyone to him. You still masturbate over him, of course, but it feels less like a need and more like a way to treat yourself. Like, if you eat all of that kale salad and only have a glass of wine with dinner, then tonight you can wank over his stupid strong arms and his stupid beautiful neck and that stupid little smile of his. If you just make it through a whole lunch with your dad and your cunt stepmother and not say anything too profane, then you get to touch yourself and imagine waking up with him in the morning and him making you pancakes and other sickeningly domestic fantasies.

It's been two years, so of course you've moved on, but you've moved on in a way that lets you keep loving him. Perhaps it's irresponsible, but you're not willing to let him go entirely. Not yet, anyway.

—

Then, your cunt stepmother announces that she and your father are adopting a baby.

"I'm sorry, _ what_—"

"You've got to be fucking kidding—"

They'd waited until Claire was in town to make the announcement. They'd invited you both over for tea, and you should've known something was strange about that, but then you're sitting in the garden with a mouthful of Earl Gray and your cunt stepmother says she's _ adopting _ and you have to flip a coin between spitting out the tea all over her tasteful linens or scalding the inside of your throat.

You end up swallowing the sip, but it's a close call.

"Well, you know, I've never _ really _ ruled out having children—it's such a blessed, beautiful part of life—but, unfortunately, I can no longer conceive naturally, and so your father and I have been discussing—"

(It wasn't a discussion.)

"—and we submitted the applications and met with a mother this week. Lovely girl, terribly awful home life, can't afford to raise the baby on her own, but she's just got the most marvelous cheek bones."

(Cunt.)

"Anyway, she's due in a couple of weeks and then we'll be bringing little Felicity home—"

(Felicity?)

"—and we'd just _ love _ it if you two were there for the christening."

"Yeah, because this family has such a great record with godmothers."

Your cunt stepmother is still smiling but the look she's giving you is acidic enough to peel paint.

"Oh, look, I don't know." Claire's grip on the teacup is so tight, you're surprised she hasn't cracked the porcelain. "I've just taken time off to come home, and I'm really not sure I'll be able to again so soon—"

"No, but you _ must_—mustn't she, darling? Your father just couldn't bear it if you weren't there for such an important day, and we did _ so _ miss you at the wedding reception."

(Two years, and she still hasn't let that go.)

"Say you will, Claire. Please? Promise us you'll be there." How your cunt stepmother manages to look so pleading is a mystery, but fuck her if she doesn't have it nailed. Your father is still mostly silent, as he's been throughout this whole ordeal, but Claire must see something in his expression because she relents with a, "Yes, fine, _ alright_. I'll be there."

For the christening. The christening of the baby they're adopting. Your father's going to be in his fucking seventies at the kid's graduation.

"Oh, how marvelous! It won't be for a few months or so after the birth, so you should have plenty of time to get everything in order. The whole thing will be just _ splendid_."

(It won't be.)

—

The day of the christening creeps up like a bad dream.

(You know those events when you think you'd rather get a bikini wax and then take a bath in lemon juice than attend? This is one of those days.)

You found a dress that seems like a good church dress, a boat-neck, sky-blue thing that doesn't really do anything for your figure, but it is a christening, so. You get there early because your cunt stepmother asked you to (demanded it), and because Claire will be getting there early as well, and maybe the two of you can sneak some of the church wine. You figure you'll probably be handing out programs or directing people to their seats or whatever else happens at a christening. It'll last about an hour, and then there will be a tasteful reception with champagne and sparkling cider and your dad and cunt stepmother showing off baby Felicity in her white, wedding-like christening gown, and then you can go home and forget the whole thing ever happened.

That's the plan, anyway.

You get to the church a half-hour before the christening starts (which is still later than you were meant to be here, but fuck it) and your cunt stepmother is already in—well, a tizzy. She's wearing this funny, artsy-looking gown that's patterned like stained glass and you wish it looked worse on her than it does. She's not yet holding baby Felicity (because this day isn't really about baby Felicity) but she is deep in conversation with the priest up near the altar, who's already dressed in his own decorative christening robes. Then your cunt stepmother looks up and sees you standing in the aisle, half-debating whether you could hide under the pews, and she's calling out your name and saying, "Thank God you're finally here—sorry, Father," and, "Oh, do you remember—?"

(It's him.)

"—he's the priest who officiated our wedding. He's not in the parish anymore—such a shame—but when I knew we'd be adopting little Felicity, I contacted him to find out if he'd be willing to perform the ceremony. Such a dear, isn't he?"

(It's him.)

"I do so love the symmetry of it. And it seemed such a hassle trying to find another priest we'd connect with when we already knew such a nice fellow."

(It's him, it's him—_fuck me_—it's him.)

He smiles when he sees you, a nice, polite, church smile. Of course, he's had however many weeks to prepare for this whereas you've just had an anvil dropped on you like you're Wile E. fucking Coyote.

"Pleasure to see you again," he says. He even sounds sincere.

"Likewise—" you say, but then your cunt stepmother is coming down from the altar and shepherding you into the back and putting you to work folding programs—"Make sure you're lining up the corners, dear,"—and you've never hated her quite so much. Of course, if it weren't for her and baby Felicity and the whole stupid christening, he wouldn't be here in the first place, but you're willing to ignore that for the sake of hating her. Fuck, he'd looked good, too. And here you are in your fucking church-appropriate dress folding fucking programs and by the end of the day he'll be gone back to the fucking coast and—

You need a cigarette, or ten. Fuck the programs.

It's quiet in the alley, enough so for you to take a couple of slow, deep, wonderfully nicotine-filled breaths and get yourself together. It'll be fine. It'll be miserable, but it'll also be fine. You'll sit in the pew, and you'll watch him perform the ceremony, and try very hard not to think about how beautiful he is underneath the fancy christening robes, and tonight you'll drink yourself unconscious and then wake up tomorrow and forget the whole day ever happened. It'll be the worst day of your life, but then it will be over.

(Second-worst, actually.)

The cigarette is nearly burned down to your fingernails, and you're about to stub it out when you hear the side door opening, and you say, "Sorry, Dad, I'll be there in a moment, I'm just—"

"Got a light?"

It's him.

(It's him.)

You nod, your breath feeling very shallow as he comes up next to you, leans in towards you with the tip of his cigarette. The orange light looks like paint on his skin, like he's been pulled from some Renaissance artwork. He still smells the same.

"Aren't you worried about ash on your—" you gesture down at the fancy christening robes.

"Not really." He exhales, slow; his hand is shaking a little. "I doubt anyone but your stepmother would notice, anyway."

The thought gives you a sudden rush of satisfaction. Fuck, you do love him.

"I tried to quit for a while," he says after another breath, the smoke hovering in front of him, "then found I didn't really want to."

(You hope he isn't actually talking about cigarettes.)

"Better than me—I've never even tried to give it up."

(You, at least, are _ definitely _ not talking about cigarettes.)

"How have you been?" he asks.

(Miserable, then less miserable, then better, and now miserable all over again.)

"Good, actually. Haven't run myself out of business yet, so. That's something. How about you?"

"I was pretty lonely, for a while. New parish and all that. But it's not so bad now, and I quite like being so close to the water."

(You're happy that he's doing well, and also a little unhappy that he isn't doing worse.)

"That sounds nice, actually. And it's good of you, to have come all the way back for the christening. You didn't have to."

He's giving you a _ look_. You hope it's the sort of look that means, _ yes, I did_.

"Well, your stepmother can be awfully persistent."

"Yeah, well, she's a cunt."

He laughs at that, both amused and unsurprised. "I don't think I can mention that during my speech."

"No, probably not."

His own cigarette is nearly gone; you'll have to go inside, soon, and then the moment will be over. You really, really don't want it to be over.

"Do you ever think about moving back?" Your palms somehow feel very dry and very sweaty at once.

"Sometimes. Often, if I'm being honest, but—" he exhales instead of finishing the sentence. "There's plenty to keep me busy where I am now."

"And how's—God?" You're just fishing for time now. Badly. 

He raises an eyebrow at you. "Mostly the same. A bit disappointed in the state of the world, but still filled with an infinite capacity for love, forgiveness, et cetera."

"Right. I think I remember something like that in the Bible."

"Love, forgiveness, et cetera?"

"Exactly."

He laughs again, then pauses. "Do you still have it, then? The one I gave you, I mean."

(You know what he meant.)

"Yeah, I've got it somewhere." 

(In your nightstand, but he doesn't need to know that.)

He nods, then lets his own cigarette fall to the pavement.

"Well, I should—"

"You should probably—"

If you were braver, you might kiss him. If he were braver, he might kiss you. You don't really want him to leave, and he doesn't particularly look like he wants to go, but without being brave, neither of you knows what's supposed to happen next. He'd go back inside and then go back to his new parish, probably, and you'd never see him again. It's painful, how much you don't want that.

"Can I ask you something?"

He looks both curious and a little afraid for the question. "Yeah, of course."

He'll be going anyway, whether or not if you fuck this up. There's no reason not to try—other than that you're a little bit of a coward, but that's not really an excuse.

"You said it would pass." You feel a little dizzy. "Did it?" His jaw goes tight a little, like there's a wire running through it. "I'm just—curious, I guess." You take a slow breath. Fuck, what you wouldn't give for another cigarette right now, or an IV filled with whiskey. "Because it didn't, for me."

At that, he lets go of whatever tension he was holding in his jaw. He lets out a half-laugh that seems—relieved, almost. "No?"

You shake your head.

"No. It didn't for me, either. I feel like I've spent the last few years cheating on God—loving him and loving you."

There it is, in the open then. _ I love you, too_.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You want to kiss him, or maybe have him fuck you against the wall. You think he probably would, too. It's exhausting, feeling this elated and miserable at once; by the time you go back inside, you hope the needle has landed on one or the other, you almost don't care which.

"What does that mean, then?"

He laughs again. "Fuck if I know. Like I haven't wasted two years trying to figure that out." He sighs, impossibly weary. "I still don't want to leave the church."

"Okay."

"But I don't want to spend any more time without you, either."

"Okay."

"It would help if you said anything else."

"I would, if I knew what else to say."

(_Kiss me, fuck me, marry me_—none of those are particularly solution-oriented, though.)

"It's been a while since we were friends. We might not like each other anymore."

(Bullshit. To the _ friends _ part and the _ not liking each other _ part.)

"Yeah, maybe."

"We could still end up hating each other."

(We wouldn't.)

"Also true."

"But—I could come back. See you again. See if this is still—"

(It is.)

"I'd like that."

He nods, weighty, like you were just discussing how to solve world hunger instead of whether or not he'll move a forty-minute drive back inland. 

"I should actually get back inside, now, before your stepmother castrates me—"

(Which would be a shame, now, after all that.)

"—but I'll be in touch? If you want?"

"I—yeah. Yes, I do."

He nods, and then he's stepping away, back towards the side door and the interior of the church. You wish he'd moved the other way, wish he'd push you up against the pitted brick wall and kiss you like it'd kill him to do anything else, but he doesn't. He's already in his fancy christening robes, after all, and it'd be a shame to wrinkle them now. Besides, you've waited two years. You can wait a few weeks or months more. You can wait, and then the two of you will figure out what happens next. He loves you as much as he loves God, and that already feels like a better place to start.

You brush the ash from your own dress and go back inside.

(You had said this was a love story.) 


End file.
